The Lonely Lawyer

Well, that’s $24 and 45 minutes I’ll never get back.

Those were the first thoughts that had crossed my mind when I left the Wine Market after my date with Chris. Yes, for those keeping score, that is now the eight or ninth Chris in my dating career (though the first one this year). This one, like most of the Jims, will never make it past the first date. So sad for him.

If you know the story of how we met, you can skip this part…If you don’t, keep reading…

Chris and I had originally started talking on Match.com. Then, about a month ago, I ran into him at SpeedDating. Of course, I didn’t realize who he was until the girls and I were doing the post-event analysis. It took him two more days, but he FINALLY got a clue, and he asked me out.

The night of our supposed first date, I was working around the clock and cancelled on him. Then, I was ill for two weeks, then he was ill, and needless to say, we kept missing each other. The problem was that we also stopped emailing each other except to set up/cancel the date. By the time we finally settled on last night, I had forgotten who this guy was and why I was even going out with him.

Which brings us to last night…

Since I never know how much time it takes to get anywhere in Baltimore, I arrived 15 minutes early. I did what any self-respecting early-girl would do; I bellied up to the bar and ordered. You can tell a lot about how the night is going to go by the bartender you meet, and this guy had a stick so far up his butt that I knew that the night was in for a bad turn. I ordered my Sangria ($3 at the bar, not sure how much it is at a table, but all in all, pretty good).

Chris arrives, and though I had assumed that we were meeting for drinks as most normal first dates do, he says, “So, do you want to go to the table?”

Oh wait, we’re having dinner!!??!!

The first thing I noticed about him was that he wasn’t moving his right arm. We’re talking Bob Dole here people. Considering that I know people our age who have had strokes, I didn’t comment. However, I kept watching to see if I was being paranoid or if there was really an issue. When he took his coat off, I realized that he wasn’t a stroke victim, he was just lazy.

We sat down, and the complaining started before his rear hit the chair.

First, it was too cold in the restaurant. Then, the wine tastings (Which we weren’t on in the first place) were too expensive…though, his outer/inner monologue kept pressing on with “But at least you get a light meal with that.” Then, he couldn’t figure out what size wine to get. Was 3 oz. too little (standard size is 4 oz for those playing at home)? Was 6 oz too much? I, of course, was too polite to order the super-mag of wine that I needed to get me through this. And why couldn’t he get the Happy Hour wine that I had?? Finally, though he claimed to know wines, and finally ordered a Riesling, he didn’t know how to say it. It wasn’t as bad as ChaBLISS, but it was close, and this is a guy who claimed to know all about wines and the local vineyards!

Side note to those who are planning to patronize the Wine Market in Locust Point: Stay at the bar for the Happy Hour specials. Twenty feet can make a lot of difference.

He started slamming on the people he went to college with. He doesn’t keep in touch with any of them, and I got the sense that he felt superior to all of them – especially the one who works at The Home Depot because he couldn’t find a “real job” after college. He was just going on and on about how dumb this guy was. I was flailing for conversation, so I brought up the Olympics. Though he claimed to like sport, he didn’t know anything about any of the Olympians or the sports. He also accused Home Depot of false advertising in their claims of employing more Olympians than any other company. I even told him where the claim came from (I’m a geek; I looked it up!) and he said it was still false advertising. I started to think he was the dumb one.

Then, Baltimore took a beating. Thankfully, I had been warned about his feelings about taxes from one of the girls who met him at Speed Dating. This meant that instead of getting offended, I spent the time trying not to laugh in his face. I’m sure whomever the rant before heard the exact same text because it sounded like he was reciting from memory!! To sum up…he hates the city in general, the BCPD, the taxes, and the government. He lives in the suburbs of Ellicott City, which is nice and a great place to raise kids (!!!). I started to think he was a little creepy. Really kids, is this proper first date conversation? I think not.

He asked about my job and why Good Morning America was at my house (They were supposed to come interview Jules but ended up canceling. That’s another story.) Then, when I was explaining Airtroductions, he got confused about the basic concepts and called it a “stupid idea,” (which was basically cover-speak for “I don’t get it, and I’m done looking like an idiot”). At that point, I knew there was no going back.

All though this time, we were eating. Well, I should say that I was nibbling because most of the conversation fell to me. He, on the other hand, was chowing down on like Jesus Christ on Holy Thursday. That right arm was active now, and it held the fork that stabbed his fish (hey buddy, they DO kill it before they cook it, you know) and shoved it in his mouth. I’ll admit that I did get some sense that he was trying to get out of there pretty quickly, but to eat with his mouth open was just plain rude. Then, he kept quizzing me about things so I couldn’t eat. Finally, I declared myself full (with only about 3 bites taken), and got the waitress to box it for me. MMMMMM, Lamb for Lunch!!

Finally, the bill arrived. Again, as is common first date polite custom, I reached for my wallet. Normally, I expect a guy to go, “I’ve got this one,” but no, he starts scrutinizing the bill and I…KID…YOU…NOT…goes, “Ok, well, it looks like it’s $18 for you.”

I threw my card down as serenely as possible, and when she brought it back, I put on enough of a tip to cover my 20% and a little extra for all the sympathetic glances she gave me. Then, he goes, “So how much tip are you putting on…” like it’s any of his business! Apparently, in his calculation, he figured his tip into his contribution and expected me to cover all of it. I did some quick math, realized I was being had, and kept on doing what I was doing.

I’m practically RUNNING for the door now, but first we have to traverse the obstacle that is the wine store. In one of his rants (this one about the wine store), he kept claiming that they didn’t have any of the Maryland wines. I was out to prove him wrong and succeeded beautifully. The first rack we got to, I saw three BALTIMORE COUNTY vineyards and told him that. He didn’t believe me until I pulled out the bottles of Basignani, Woodholme and Boordy and showed it to him. “Oh,” he tried to cover, “those are Maryland wines? Are you sure? The only one I know is Linganore.”

I thanked him for a lovely evening, and told him that I’d call him should I ever wish to go out again. Considering that the chances of that happening are about as slim as Mary Kate Olsen being caught eating a hamburger, I’m hoping that he’s not waiting by the phone.